Those Damned Eyes
by Tomolonis
Summary: Dean has an issue with Castiel's confession of fearing suicide. Dean's reaction to the confession surprises even himself. A short, requested one-shot. Might continue, but I doubt it. M for language.


Those damned eyes.

He'd known the guy for what, years? And never before had they been so melancholy, so downcast. So damn dark. The angel was sitting on Dean's bed, looking through his dad's journal – but he didn't have it in him to be angry. Usually - he would be. Hell, usually he would have torn the guy apart for touching his stuff. But the way Cas' eyes drifted, barely looking at the pages, told the hunter that something else must be going through that child-like head of his. It simply wasn't like him – and for some goddamned reason, Dean actually cared.

"Cas, how're you feelin' man?"

The words were torn from the older Winchester's lips, almost subconsciously. Internally, he could have cursed himself. Actually, he would have felt a lot better about himself if he _was _cursing himself for bringing up feelings. It was such a chick thing to do, and he was no chick. But no – his eyes were focusing, upon the angel's form, studying him. Cas was upset – and Dean not only cared, but _wanted _to get the angel to talk about it.

"Fine," came Cas' quick reply, dismissive. "Your father," he added as an afterthought, barely lifting his head, "Had beautiful handwriting." Oh, Dean could play this game. He knew all about deflecting questions and putting on a face, only because that had been his entire life's existence. But he couldn't let Cas do it. Not now, when they had already been through so much. The only question was, how was Dean supposed to approach this? It was horribly unlike him to ask about anyone's feelings, and the lump in his throat was only getting bigger as the words wouldn't come.

"Well uh, I know how Purgatory was…Cas, the whole resurrection thing –," The angel was tensing, but Dean continued, "It's a bit weird, right? I've been uh –, well, Sammy and I have been thinking that you should take a trip upstairs to ah, ask about what happened. See if anyone knows anything you know? Make some inquiries." There. All the words were out, and the hunter could breathe again. The 'feelings' talk was over, and now he felt pleased enough to shoot the angel a cheeky grin.

"No, Dean."

Well he hadn't been expecting that. Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. Hell, it was just Heaven. Dean had no doubts at all that Cas could handle it, considering he'd magically poofed himself out of fucking Purgatory.

"Look, Cas, I hate those angel bitches as much as you do, but –"

"Dean! I said no!" The low voice, always so calm and collected, was higher in pitch and so loud that the hunter raised a brow. Cas never yelled. Never.

That exclamation, that outburst, was all it took to make Dean shut his laptop, crossing the room with deliberate steps before sitting across from the angel.

Who had frighteningly troubled blue eyes.

"Talk to me."

And Cas did. His voice faltered once, but Dean pressed on, encouraging him silently with his constant engagement. His eyes never left the angel's, taking in every expression, every breath, until –

"I'm afraid I might kill myself."

A jolt of something not unlike electricity coursed through the man, whose eyes refused to tear away from the angel's.

"No," Dean was breathing out, his hands far shakier than he'd ever like to allow. He reached for the angel across from him, whose head was buried by much steadier hands. "Stop – Cas – look at me, dammit." Though shaky, Dean's calloused hands were steady enough to pry Castiel's apart, revealing Cas' face as Dean forced the angel to look at him. "Don't you do that." Desperate, confused, the older Winchester went on, a force unknown pulsing through him, willing him to keep speaking, because he couldn't lose Castiel, _again._

"Don't you say that." His tone had gone from desperate to commanding – gravelly even, as he pulled the angel's face closer, willing Cas to understand just how much he was needed – just how much he was –

But Dean would never say _that _out loud.

"Cas, c'mon buddy. I need you. You know that."

And those damned blue eyes raised, glossy with unshed moisture because he was an angel, and could not cry. Because he was a man, and should not cry. Because he was across from Dean, and _would _not cry.

"Dean –" And the hunter could tell the angel wanted to continue, wanted to speak but couldn't. There was a lump forming in his own throat, an unwilling reaction to seeing those _damned blue eyes _so goddamned sad.

And something in him told him to reach out, to pull the angel close, to hug him because that's what he was supposed to do, and what he should do. Dean's arms locked around the angel's waist, his facial expression turning once more into desperation behind Castiel's back. How could he make him understand just how much he needed the son of a bitch? He was so ignorant, so naïve – so _Cas._

He didn't know how long he held the angel for, but Dean was not – surprisingly – the first person to pull back. There was a smile in place of the frown that had once before graced Cas' features, and the green eyes reflected in Cas' blue ones were laced with unhidden relief.

It was the smile that made Dean remember himself, and his other senses. There was a smell burning his nose, overwhelming in its capacity. The hunter's face scrunched, a smile playing on his own lips as a chuckle hissed through his teeth.

"Cas," Dean was laughing, his hand lingering on Cas' shoulder. "Are you wearing cologne?"

Terror danced around the irises of the angel's eyes, his body tensing yet again for fear of having done something wrong. "I thought it was customary for human males to wear such scents. It appears I'm mis-"

"No," the hunter was quick to reassure the trench-coated man, his hand squeezing the shoulder it had been resting on. "No, it's fine. It's just – peppermint?"

The question floated in the air for a long moment, Dean's jaw clenching at the smell. It smelled _good. _And that was a problem. The damned blue eyed angel was getting to him. It was time to –

"If I didn't know any better," Castiel was speaking, his head tilting ever so slowly as the words echoed, "I'd say you liked peppermint, Dean."

The statement was insulting. Downright infuriating. Dean Winchester did not like fucking peppermint cologne. No, no, n-

"I thought you'd like it. That's why I picked it. I wanted – well, I thought that maybe if I…tried harder to be human, to be a good hunter, you'd let me stay here with you. And Sam." It was still a question, spoken so quietly it was hard to hear, even though the two men were so close together.

Dean's denials were melting, words failing him as his mouth opened, only to close again. "Cas," he smiled, brilliantly white teeth flashing in that fond, quirky, flirty way of his.

And the angel moved closer, his forehead against his, and Dean couldn't find it in him to be mad, couldn't yell, couldn't tear him a new one for ignoring his rule about personal space. Because his angel was so needed, so sad, so –

But he wouldn't ever say _that _out loud.

Truth be told, however -

Castiel was content with staring back into those damned green eyes.


End file.
